In the past hour, I’ve caught up on the blogs I read, I’ve checked my e-mail, and I’ve had two cups of tea. Oh – and I’ve determined two things:
Thing the First: I want to finish all unfinished knitting projects that are lying around before the end of 2007. That’s five knitting projects at least. I’m pretty sure I’ll find some I didn’t even know I started when I open my knitting bin.
Thing the Second: It takes fifteen tablespoons of sugar to fill my sugarbowl.
I woke up with a start at 6:00 this morning and got really irritated because I had to go to work. I know it’s Sunday – and I knew this when I woke up. But I had forgotten to activate the autoreply on the general e-mail at work telling people we’re away and will get back to them as soon as we’ve returned. So that was a really crappy thing to realize on the second day of your holiday. I was getting ready to get dressed, let the man sleep, take the bus, and go to work to fix this, when I had a brilliant idea: test it first...what if you did activate the autoreply rule? Hmm. Yeah. Fat chance, I thought, you did everything else you had to do, tied all the loose ends and had to forget something. So I tested it. And it answered! Phew. No going to work for me today.
My penguin pyjamas are keeping me warm, the tree is lit, my tea is getting cold, and I’ve got some serious knitting to do. So I’ll catch you all later.
Happy Holidays to all, with my best wishes for peace, good health and discoveries for 2008.
2008? Holy crap. We’re 8 years into the future.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Captain Grilled Cheese and the Vegan Lasagna.
For the first time in my life, please sit down, O Witty Funny Sweet Ones, I made lasagna.
As you have guessed from the title of this post, I made Vegan Lasagna, complete with non-cheese. We’re having a potluck lunch tomorrow at work and one of our buddies is vegan. Non-cheese is quite the funny product. The package says – literally – “it melts!” when actually, as I found out five minutes ago when I pulled the dish out of the oven, it does not. But the vegan lasagna making was very pleasurable. It entailed making spaghetti sauce without meat. Instead, I made green lentils to throw in for texture. I had never made green lentils, either. So, Younglings, massive amounts of newness were experienced.
I had a great evening, for a Thursday. After work, I took a different bus and went to my yarn store. Mmmm. Yarn Store. I hadn’t been in over two months. I went around every little nook and cranny, petted the yarn, caressed mohair and fondled silk. It was delightful. I was actually going to get a gift for someone. I bought bamboo needles and a nice ball of textured yarn for her to cut her teeth on. But you know me – I had to get some for myself. Mrs. Yarnlady has these nifty Ziploc bags you can buy. They contain different yarns, ends of balls of yarn and experiments gone wrong. So I just got two skeins of mohair and one skein of wool for $10. Not bad, eh?
Oh – yes – I had grilled cheese for dinner. Because I’m lazy. Okay, no…because it’s good.
As you have guessed from the title of this post, I made Vegan Lasagna, complete with non-cheese. We’re having a potluck lunch tomorrow at work and one of our buddies is vegan. Non-cheese is quite the funny product. The package says – literally – “it melts!” when actually, as I found out five minutes ago when I pulled the dish out of the oven, it does not. But the vegan lasagna making was very pleasurable. It entailed making spaghetti sauce without meat. Instead, I made green lentils to throw in for texture. I had never made green lentils, either. So, Younglings, massive amounts of newness were experienced.
I had a great evening, for a Thursday. After work, I took a different bus and went to my yarn store. Mmmm. Yarn Store. I hadn’t been in over two months. I went around every little nook and cranny, petted the yarn, caressed mohair and fondled silk. It was delightful. I was actually going to get a gift for someone. I bought bamboo needles and a nice ball of textured yarn for her to cut her teeth on. But you know me – I had to get some for myself. Mrs. Yarnlady has these nifty Ziploc bags you can buy. They contain different yarns, ends of balls of yarn and experiments gone wrong. So I just got two skeins of mohair and one skein of wool for $10. Not bad, eh?
Oh – yes – I had grilled cheese for dinner. Because I’m lazy. Okay, no…because it’s good.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Houston, We Are Go.
For those of you who are still following, I have not tried to crochet again. Just so you know. I’m looking for a specific book to help me out, which is probably still in a box. I’ll find it. When I do, I’ll try to crochet again. But for now, well, I’ll do other things.
I find myself at a crossroads of some sort. In fact, I sit there most of the day. I’m able to function in my everyday activities and go through the motions of work and food-making and sleeping and talking to other Human Beings, but in my mind, I am sitting on a gravel road, in the middle of nowhere. And I’m not even scared.
The peculiar thing about this place, if you’ll bear with me, is the incredibly blue sky and – more importantly - the grass. It’s so lush and green! I’m wearing my jeans, the ones I just bought that fit really nicely. And I’m wearing my sister’s t-shirt. I don’t know why, I just like it. So I’m wearing it. The blue one that says Valiquette. I am alone. Somewhere close to me, behind me, there is the sound of running water, a creek, I think.
I am sitting right in the middle of the gravel road, with my legs straight in front of me, slightly apart. My feet are bare. I am leaning on my arms behind me. My palms, flat on the road, are starting to hurt because of the small pebbles digging into them. But I stay. There is a long, thin shadow in front of me, and my eyes run the length of it very often. Over and over again. I do not know where the shadow originates from. Why is it there? What does it mean? Should I try to get there?
Today, I keep my eyes open a little longer. I feel rested, and I am able to follow the shadow for a longer period of time. It’s really, really long. I feel like I’m sitting at one end of Space, looking at the other end. It stretches right to the limit of what I can physically see, somehow. And at the end, I can see there is something, but I can’t make it out. I’ve been working on trying to stand up to get closer to it faster. It takes a long time just to think of getting up: my will is somehow warped. I decide to crawl. Getting up seems impossible at this time. Maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll find something to help me up. I can’t see anything from here – the landscape is perfectly flat and featureless. But you never know.
I’ve taken the habit of lining up the thin shadow to the side of my leg and I push myself forward with my hands toward its starting point, slowly. I will not lose my direction this way. It shifts, swerves, curbs the light and plays tricks on my eyes. So I’ve tamed it and it seems to be behaving now. Every time I come back, I sit back down and shift around until I line up the shadow perfectly on the side of my right leg. It moves a couple of times, I readjust. I start pushing myself forward. I’ve ripped the bottom of my jeans, the sand is sliding in between the fabric and my skin and it’s chapped.
This time, I’ve gotten so close to the top of the shadow I can see what casts it.
There is a post. It bears many signs, which point in different directions. I can’t read any of them, because they are all written in a language I do not recognize, with symbols I have never seen. All but one. I wish I could get up to make sure what I see is right: I can barely read it, for the sun is my eyes. But when I narrow my eyes and concentrate, I can make it out.
This Way.
I find myself at a crossroads of some sort. In fact, I sit there most of the day. I’m able to function in my everyday activities and go through the motions of work and food-making and sleeping and talking to other Human Beings, but in my mind, I am sitting on a gravel road, in the middle of nowhere. And I’m not even scared.
The peculiar thing about this place, if you’ll bear with me, is the incredibly blue sky and – more importantly - the grass. It’s so lush and green! I’m wearing my jeans, the ones I just bought that fit really nicely. And I’m wearing my sister’s t-shirt. I don’t know why, I just like it. So I’m wearing it. The blue one that says Valiquette. I am alone. Somewhere close to me, behind me, there is the sound of running water, a creek, I think.
I am sitting right in the middle of the gravel road, with my legs straight in front of me, slightly apart. My feet are bare. I am leaning on my arms behind me. My palms, flat on the road, are starting to hurt because of the small pebbles digging into them. But I stay. There is a long, thin shadow in front of me, and my eyes run the length of it very often. Over and over again. I do not know where the shadow originates from. Why is it there? What does it mean? Should I try to get there?
Today, I keep my eyes open a little longer. I feel rested, and I am able to follow the shadow for a longer period of time. It’s really, really long. I feel like I’m sitting at one end of Space, looking at the other end. It stretches right to the limit of what I can physically see, somehow. And at the end, I can see there is something, but I can’t make it out. I’ve been working on trying to stand up to get closer to it faster. It takes a long time just to think of getting up: my will is somehow warped. I decide to crawl. Getting up seems impossible at this time. Maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll find something to help me up. I can’t see anything from here – the landscape is perfectly flat and featureless. But you never know.
I’ve taken the habit of lining up the thin shadow to the side of my leg and I push myself forward with my hands toward its starting point, slowly. I will not lose my direction this way. It shifts, swerves, curbs the light and plays tricks on my eyes. So I’ve tamed it and it seems to be behaving now. Every time I come back, I sit back down and shift around until I line up the shadow perfectly on the side of my right leg. It moves a couple of times, I readjust. I start pushing myself forward. I’ve ripped the bottom of my jeans, the sand is sliding in between the fabric and my skin and it’s chapped.
This time, I’ve gotten so close to the top of the shadow I can see what casts it.
There is a post. It bears many signs, which point in different directions. I can’t read any of them, because they are all written in a language I do not recognize, with symbols I have never seen. All but one. I wish I could get up to make sure what I see is right: I can barely read it, for the sun is my eyes. But when I narrow my eyes and concentrate, I can make it out.
This Way.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Crochet, Dammit.
I sat there. I had the tool and the material; I had the video on You Tube.
I had the will and the couple of beer in me that would make me want to do it. After watching five tutorials and judging them all as interesting in their uniqueness as the last one, I decided I remembered what my friend K had showed me December 31st, 2005. I decided I remembered how to crochet. In fact, I decided tomorrow is when I’ll be making my first crochet scarf. Because if you did not already know, I mainly make scarves. Usually, I knit them. But I am looking to branch out. Who doesn’t?
I have this great collection of crochet hooks. Some are made of wood, most are aluminium. All are idle. They sit in my Boticelli Chocolate metal case of knitting knick-knacks, because I have completely ignored them for the past 4 years. But I bought them at a Christmas Sale years ago and have never, ever used them. Oh I tried. But to no avail.
So the You Tube instructors say slipknot, yarn over, pull through, and yarn over, slip through the two stitches. But I have four stitches on my hook. My yarn won’t stretch, it’s linen. I can’t see shit, it’s 11:30 at night and I spent all day doing stuff around the house. And I’m trying to crochet by the light of the monitor. Maybe I should turn the light on. I want to wrap the yarn over the monitor and strangle it. I want to burn the yarn with a blowtorch. In fact, if I had a backyard that belonged to me, I would. I’d march out there with the barbecue lighter, straight to the fire pit, because for damned sure I would have a fire pit, and I’d light the damned thing – yes, the whole skein of linen – on fire. I think it’s time I did something else. I know it’s time I did something else.
Like forget crochet and go back to knitting.
I had the will and the couple of beer in me that would make me want to do it. After watching five tutorials and judging them all as interesting in their uniqueness as the last one, I decided I remembered what my friend K had showed me December 31st, 2005. I decided I remembered how to crochet. In fact, I decided tomorrow is when I’ll be making my first crochet scarf. Because if you did not already know, I mainly make scarves. Usually, I knit them. But I am looking to branch out. Who doesn’t?
I have this great collection of crochet hooks. Some are made of wood, most are aluminium. All are idle. They sit in my Boticelli Chocolate metal case of knitting knick-knacks, because I have completely ignored them for the past 4 years. But I bought them at a Christmas Sale years ago and have never, ever used them. Oh I tried. But to no avail.
So the You Tube instructors say slipknot, yarn over, pull through, and yarn over, slip through the two stitches. But I have four stitches on my hook. My yarn won’t stretch, it’s linen. I can’t see shit, it’s 11:30 at night and I spent all day doing stuff around the house. And I’m trying to crochet by the light of the monitor. Maybe I should turn the light on. I want to wrap the yarn over the monitor and strangle it. I want to burn the yarn with a blowtorch. In fact, if I had a backyard that belonged to me, I would. I’d march out there with the barbecue lighter, straight to the fire pit, because for damned sure I would have a fire pit, and I’d light the damned thing – yes, the whole skein of linen – on fire. I think it’s time I did something else. I know it’s time I did something else.
Like forget crochet and go back to knitting.
Tomorrow morning, when I wake up at 7:00, I’ll make spaghetti sauce, and strawberry jam, and banana bread. Then I’ll try to crochet again. Maybe. In the meantime, 8 things I know:
1. I have values and principles;
2. I can write;
3. It’s Saturday but almost Sunday;
4. There are 9 planets in our Solar system (…right?);
5. I have people who care for me;
6. There is always an answer;
7. Things aren’t always what they seem.
8. I can knit, but not crochet yet.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Once Upon A Time...
...There was this girl.
She liked to write. In fact, not only did she like writing, she virtually lived by it. She needed it to survive. And then, after a few months, she felt this sour, bitter taste far in the back of her throat and thought "Oh - maybe I need to tone it down. Maybe people don't want to read about my daily meanderings, my Élucubrations."
So she waited until she found the right topic to write about. Day in and day out, she held back until the right phrase presented itself. She found everything boring and un-post-worthy. Once in a while, she jotted down words and sentences, figured out ways to make them sound the way she wanted them to, and inevitably postponed publishing them to her blog. She went to see the Beastie Boys in Montreal (yyyyessss!!!) and generally had a great summer. Her man turned thirty and it was not the party she thought it would be, but it was great anyway. She continued knitting the baby blankie for her friends S&M (I assure you...) in Montréal.
Oh this gets tiring, writing at the third person. So for the record, I am alas fed up of waiting, Throng of Readers. I have grown used to your comments and approval, and I found it was lacking in the past posts. So I stopped writing. But I craved the writing so much! The writing is such a joy! To post once in a while and to - maybe - get a response, some sort of acknowledgement! It filled me with joy! So I am back to the writing. How many times have I said this? Many. I admit. Okay. I have not been regular in posting. Please forgive and forget, for this is a tentative new beginning.
How have you been? Well, I hope. Any of you have kids while I was gone? Anyone retire or move to a distant land? Anyone get married, divorced, found new yummy love? Good. Keep me posted. I crave your news. My last question to you was not answered, you bunch of worthless losers, except by my one and only Tortuga. So for the record, the Chicken crossed the road to get to the other side, to slip his card to the hot business guy with the pinstripe suit and the tie and the briefcase. This particular chicken, as my father-in-law would say (he likes to use the word particular) according to Tortuga, did not have a ring on his left hand ringfinger, or wherever it is that chickens place their rings. So she said, and I quote: "Go chicken go." Voilà. And now that the survey results have been communicated, I may move on.
I'm off to play Project Gotham Racing 4 on my boyfriend's XBox 360 while he's gone. So long, Suckers. See you soon, I sincerely hope.
Best wishes, and I'll keep you posted. This time.
Mademoiselle xox
She liked to write. In fact, not only did she like writing, she virtually lived by it. She needed it to survive. And then, after a few months, she felt this sour, bitter taste far in the back of her throat and thought "Oh - maybe I need to tone it down. Maybe people don't want to read about my daily meanderings, my Élucubrations."
So she waited until she found the right topic to write about. Day in and day out, she held back until the right phrase presented itself. She found everything boring and un-post-worthy. Once in a while, she jotted down words and sentences, figured out ways to make them sound the way she wanted them to, and inevitably postponed publishing them to her blog. She went to see the Beastie Boys in Montreal (yyyyessss!!!) and generally had a great summer. Her man turned thirty and it was not the party she thought it would be, but it was great anyway. She continued knitting the baby blankie for her friends S&M (I assure you...) in Montréal.
Oh this gets tiring, writing at the third person. So for the record, I am alas fed up of waiting, Throng of Readers. I have grown used to your comments and approval, and I found it was lacking in the past posts. So I stopped writing. But I craved the writing so much! The writing is such a joy! To post once in a while and to - maybe - get a response, some sort of acknowledgement! It filled me with joy! So I am back to the writing. How many times have I said this? Many. I admit. Okay. I have not been regular in posting. Please forgive and forget, for this is a tentative new beginning.
How have you been? Well, I hope. Any of you have kids while I was gone? Anyone retire or move to a distant land? Anyone get married, divorced, found new yummy love? Good. Keep me posted. I crave your news. My last question to you was not answered, you bunch of worthless losers, except by my one and only Tortuga. So for the record, the Chicken crossed the road to get to the other side, to slip his card to the hot business guy with the pinstripe suit and the tie and the briefcase. This particular chicken, as my father-in-law would say (he likes to use the word particular) according to Tortuga, did not have a ring on his left hand ringfinger, or wherever it is that chickens place their rings. So she said, and I quote: "Go chicken go." Voilà. And now that the survey results have been communicated, I may move on.
I'm off to play Project Gotham Racing 4 on my boyfriend's XBox 360 while he's gone. So long, Suckers. See you soon, I sincerely hope.
Best wishes, and I'll keep you posted. This time.
Mademoiselle xox
Sunday, August 12, 2007
In Retrospect.
In the process of growing up, I sometimes sat and made a quick mental inventory of things I was pretty sure I'd get to witness along the way to adulthood. At ten years old, this list included living in the same city as my Dad and decorating my future cottage on the seashore. At ten years old, I was convinced I would never live to see the year 2000. Not because I didn't want to live to the year 2000, I just thought it was impossible to live to see the numbers change so drastically. It was an impossible concept to grasp.
At thirteen, my list grew a bit to include the New Kids on the Block and my eventual husband. I think that's when the hormones kicked in.
At sixteen, I lived in a new city. I had a very strange sense of the universe surrounding me. I felt like I was entrenched in this giant emptiness. It wrapped me like a wet blanket and I felt exactly like my favorite band at the time said, there was no future. It was probably due to a bunch of family-related issues going on, but I felt out of place, like I had mistakenly been dropped in the middle of somewhere I did not belong. Teenage awkwardness, check. This void surrounding me could not be explained rationally, so I decided I was probably doomed and would have to be an outcast my whole life while taking part in society's weird, useless rituals and traditions to please the people I thought were judging me. I wish I could travel back in time and take my younger self's hand and say "Calm the fuck down. Everything is going to be okay. You don't need to write death poems and funeral odes. You'll see, things get a lot better in seven years." My younger self probably would have started crying and run to her bedroom to write yet another dark, abstract, existential poem.
Seven years went by, a crapload of stuff happened, good and bad, sandwiched in between various phases and the evolution of my personal values and aspirations. Things did get better. The wet blanket of weirdness vanished. I did live, not only to see the year 2000, but also to keep dreaming about the seaside cottage. I've found my husband, although technically, we're not married, and the New Kids on the Block are now but a fleeing sweet smell in my past. Life has its share of eighteen-wheeler-sized surprises, and I am now able to make the most of them.
Yesterday, H and I were guests (and responsible for applauding on cue) at the first Lesbian Princess Wedding we've ever been to - tiaras, plastic high-heel shoes, and sparkly dresses included. Oh - and parents arguing about who should pay for the wedding. Two of our neighbors, aged 4, celebrated their wedding in the backyard. Then we had three funerals for the same bride, and one of the brides (the one who expired thrice) hid behind a bush with the other bride's older brother (who happened to be the priest at the wedding). Then we determined the location of spots to pretend to be sick in.
Life is good.
At thirteen, my list grew a bit to include the New Kids on the Block and my eventual husband. I think that's when the hormones kicked in.
At sixteen, I lived in a new city. I had a very strange sense of the universe surrounding me. I felt like I was entrenched in this giant emptiness. It wrapped me like a wet blanket and I felt exactly like my favorite band at the time said, there was no future. It was probably due to a bunch of family-related issues going on, but I felt out of place, like I had mistakenly been dropped in the middle of somewhere I did not belong. Teenage awkwardness, check. This void surrounding me could not be explained rationally, so I decided I was probably doomed and would have to be an outcast my whole life while taking part in society's weird, useless rituals and traditions to please the people I thought were judging me. I wish I could travel back in time and take my younger self's hand and say "Calm the fuck down. Everything is going to be okay. You don't need to write death poems and funeral odes. You'll see, things get a lot better in seven years." My younger self probably would have started crying and run to her bedroom to write yet another dark, abstract, existential poem.
Seven years went by, a crapload of stuff happened, good and bad, sandwiched in between various phases and the evolution of my personal values and aspirations. Things did get better. The wet blanket of weirdness vanished. I did live, not only to see the year 2000, but also to keep dreaming about the seaside cottage. I've found my husband, although technically, we're not married, and the New Kids on the Block are now but a fleeing sweet smell in my past. Life has its share of eighteen-wheeler-sized surprises, and I am now able to make the most of them.
Yesterday, H and I were guests (and responsible for applauding on cue) at the first Lesbian Princess Wedding we've ever been to - tiaras, plastic high-heel shoes, and sparkly dresses included. Oh - and parents arguing about who should pay for the wedding. Two of our neighbors, aged 4, celebrated their wedding in the backyard. Then we had three funerals for the same bride, and one of the brides (the one who expired thrice) hid behind a bush with the other bride's older brother (who happened to be the priest at the wedding). Then we determined the location of spots to pretend to be sick in.
Life is good.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
In Style.
I took the bus home today, as usual. Unlike regular days of the week, I had a seat on the bus. So far, so good.
What I did not expect, Throng of Fans, was the guy who got on the bus one stop after me. I don’t know why, I always look at people who get on the bus with me. It’s a habit. I like observing people, it’s in my nature. I usually get away with it too, because I am very discreet. Thank the Little Pixies That Rule the World, I am discreet. So the puddle of drool pooling in my lap went unnoticed.
This guy – ohhhh this guy. I’ve always had a not-so-secret crush on the David Usher type, and this pinstripe-suit, awesome tie, briefcase-carrying babe was it. We both sported rings on our left hand ringfingers, but I swear if I hadn’t, I would have slipped him my card. Oh yes. Heehee. Oh – sorry – I’m giggling.
Okay, enough.
I am back, as you might have noticed, after quite a break. I hope you didn’t give up on me…I had a very relaxing two-week getaway and made the most of it. To me, a holiday that includes family, friends, a lake, Uno, Mille Bornes, good food and drink, a fire & marshmallows is a pretty awesome holiday. Yummy. I rest my case.
And now, a first. A poll! I am allowing ten days for you Monkeys to post your answers in the comments. I'll let you know the results, I promise.
Question: Why did the chicken cross the road?
a. To hit on the hot girl chicken on the other side;
b. This side of the road had become boring;
c. To ogle the 1969 Z28 Camaro on the other side;
d. To slip his card to the hot business guy with the pinstripe suit and the tie and the briefcase.
Hands off, Chicken.
What I did not expect, Throng of Fans, was the guy who got on the bus one stop after me. I don’t know why, I always look at people who get on the bus with me. It’s a habit. I like observing people, it’s in my nature. I usually get away with it too, because I am very discreet. Thank the Little Pixies That Rule the World, I am discreet. So the puddle of drool pooling in my lap went unnoticed.
This guy – ohhhh this guy. I’ve always had a not-so-secret crush on the David Usher type, and this pinstripe-suit, awesome tie, briefcase-carrying babe was it. We both sported rings on our left hand ringfingers, but I swear if I hadn’t, I would have slipped him my card. Oh yes. Heehee. Oh – sorry – I’m giggling.
Okay, enough.
I am back, as you might have noticed, after quite a break. I hope you didn’t give up on me…I had a very relaxing two-week getaway and made the most of it. To me, a holiday that includes family, friends, a lake, Uno, Mille Bornes, good food and drink, a fire & marshmallows is a pretty awesome holiday. Yummy. I rest my case.
And now, a first. A poll! I am allowing ten days for you Monkeys to post your answers in the comments. I'll let you know the results, I promise.
Question: Why did the chicken cross the road?
a. To hit on the hot girl chicken on the other side;
b. This side of the road had become boring;
c. To ogle the 1969 Z28 Camaro on the other side;
d. To slip his card to the hot business guy with the pinstripe suit and the tie and the briefcase.
Hands off, Chicken.
Friday, July 13, 2007
The Furious Five.
Let me begin by saying something very important: I have not written in a while and I am truly sorry, Numerous Readers. I know you need your fix once in a while. If you’ve been re-reading my previous posts to make the withdrawal symptoms go away, I am also sorry, and hope you instantly start feeling better. Nnnnow. Now.
I have no excuse for not writing, other than the one where I don’t have a computer to myself anymore. So, yeah. I have to share with my gaming man. It’s okay, but I don’t get to set the mood to write. I need my music, my desk, my environment. And now, I do it right here, in the living room, in full view of my man. He calls me his blogging master sexy goddess of love. So it’s not all bad - I will stop complaining now. Some people don’t even have computers. Some people don’t even have loving, caring, handsome mates to call them blogging master sexy goddess of love. Goddamn, I’m lucky.
Okay, Monkeys. Here we go.
Today’s feature: “Five Things That Are True & Make Me Go Eech”.
Item Number One: I’ve had an irritating/sad/tiring week but I’ll survive.
Regarding Item One, I’ll blame myself. Maybe it’s because I have no patience this close to my holidays. Also, I have about one-third of the time I need to do everything that needs to be done before I leave for two weeks. Wait – did that sentence make sense? You know what I mean.
Item Number Two: I have nothing to write about right now.
I’m just sitting here typing, trying to avoid turning around to watch the TV, because my man is presently watching the most annoying show ever invented. I used to watch this show out of curiosity, and now it’s morbid curiosity that makes me turn around and go awww damn. Item Number Two was resolved three minutes ago: I fished my i-pod out of my bag and am currently grooving to my tunes. I don’t have to hear the inane chattering. Blah! In your face, inane chattering! Take that!
Item Number Three: For the fifth month in a row, I am not pregnant yet.
I got crushed this week, because. Item Number Three crushes me every time I get my period. Another month without a shrimp in my belly. Another month to wait. I need to calm the fuck down. Oops, I said fuck. Oops, I said fuck again. I could go on forever. Seriously, though, I am in some sort of hellish paradox where I am relaxed and happy and I’m enjoying the perks of trying to have a baby, but I’m also waking up every morning hoping I’m pregnant. I’m sure some people would recommend therapy. I am writing my own prescription on this one: calm the fuck down. Thinking about it too much apparently prevents your uterus to do its job.
Item Number Four: I don’t like my feet.
They may be the canvas for my next tattoo, maybe that’ll help. I’d have to convince my sister to get another tattoo too. We’ve had both our tattoos done at the same time. I can’t break that tradition. Is it a tradition? Does it qualify as a habit? Will our respective karmas turn sour if we don’t get tattooed at the same time? Why are marmosets so cute?
Item Number Five: One of favorite bands just cancelled their concert.
…which I was supposed to go see Sunday night for free. With my little bro and my man. Would have been magical. Sigh. Why, Little Pixies That Rule The World, why? How will you ever make it up to us? This was a once in a lifetime opportunity!
That makes five. Eech.
My man asked me to tell you that he has a hole in his sock. In the right one. And, technically, he has two holes in his sock, but don’t tell him I told you. And now, a marmoset. Because it's so damn cute.
I have no excuse for not writing, other than the one where I don’t have a computer to myself anymore. So, yeah. I have to share with my gaming man. It’s okay, but I don’t get to set the mood to write. I need my music, my desk, my environment. And now, I do it right here, in the living room, in full view of my man. He calls me his blogging master sexy goddess of love. So it’s not all bad - I will stop complaining now. Some people don’t even have computers. Some people don’t even have loving, caring, handsome mates to call them blogging master sexy goddess of love. Goddamn, I’m lucky.
Okay, Monkeys. Here we go.
Today’s feature: “Five Things That Are True & Make Me Go Eech”.
Item Number One: I’ve had an irritating/sad/tiring week but I’ll survive.
Regarding Item One, I’ll blame myself. Maybe it’s because I have no patience this close to my holidays. Also, I have about one-third of the time I need to do everything that needs to be done before I leave for two weeks. Wait – did that sentence make sense? You know what I mean.
Item Number Two: I have nothing to write about right now.
I’m just sitting here typing, trying to avoid turning around to watch the TV, because my man is presently watching the most annoying show ever invented. I used to watch this show out of curiosity, and now it’s morbid curiosity that makes me turn around and go awww damn. Item Number Two was resolved three minutes ago: I fished my i-pod out of my bag and am currently grooving to my tunes. I don’t have to hear the inane chattering. Blah! In your face, inane chattering! Take that!
Item Number Three: For the fifth month in a row, I am not pregnant yet.
I got crushed this week, because. Item Number Three crushes me every time I get my period. Another month without a shrimp in my belly. Another month to wait. I need to calm the fuck down. Oops, I said fuck. Oops, I said fuck again. I could go on forever. Seriously, though, I am in some sort of hellish paradox where I am relaxed and happy and I’m enjoying the perks of trying to have a baby, but I’m also waking up every morning hoping I’m pregnant. I’m sure some people would recommend therapy. I am writing my own prescription on this one: calm the fuck down. Thinking about it too much apparently prevents your uterus to do its job.
Item Number Four: I don’t like my feet.
They may be the canvas for my next tattoo, maybe that’ll help. I’d have to convince my sister to get another tattoo too. We’ve had both our tattoos done at the same time. I can’t break that tradition. Is it a tradition? Does it qualify as a habit? Will our respective karmas turn sour if we don’t get tattooed at the same time? Why are marmosets so cute?
Item Number Five: One of favorite bands just cancelled their concert.
…which I was supposed to go see Sunday night for free. With my little bro and my man. Would have been magical. Sigh. Why, Little Pixies That Rule The World, why? How will you ever make it up to us? This was a once in a lifetime opportunity!
That makes five. Eech.
My man asked me to tell you that he has a hole in his sock. In the right one. And, technically, he has two holes in his sock, but don’t tell him I told you. And now, a marmoset. Because it's so damn cute.
"You like my stick? It's my stick. It's not your stick cause it's mine. Mineminemine. Mmmmine."
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Mots.
Une lueur d’amertume enveloppe mon âme
Comme un froid sibérien comme
Une chandelle fige dans l’air du matin
Quelque part une femme
Quelque part un oiseau
Une écharpe de laine oubliée sur la lune
Tel un manteau de brume
Sur le dos d’une étoile
Et mon cœur de bitume dévoile
Son corps d’argent
Quelque part une membrane
Quelque part un ruisseau
Et dans les bras d’un homme dans le port
De l’oubli j’ai gravé ma démence
Et les pétales ternis
J’ai crié aux aurores
Quelque part une amphore
Quelque part une enfant
Comme un froid sibérien comme
Une chandelle fige dans l’air du matin
Quelque part une femme
Quelque part un oiseau
Une écharpe de laine oubliée sur la lune
Tel un manteau de brume
Sur le dos d’une étoile
Et mon cœur de bitume dévoile
Son corps d’argent
Quelque part une membrane
Quelque part un ruisseau
Et dans les bras d’un homme dans le port
De l’oubli j’ai gravé ma démence
Et les pétales ternis
J’ai crié aux aurores
Quelque part une amphore
Quelque part une enfant
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The House.
The story I’m about to tell you really happened. Whether it really happened for real or I made it up for real is not quite clear. Ask my sister, she would probably know.
After I’d been living in this small village in Bas St-Laurent for two or three years, my friends and I, on a very dark, cloudy afternoon, stumbled upon quite a fascinating feature in the forest, about half a kilometer (kids – the most talented and accurate at guessing distances, true fact!) in the woods, right behind my house.
We were doing what we usually did on such afternoons: arguing about who was the leader – I would assume since I was the oldest kid on the street, I got to be the leader, you can ask my sister about that, too. We were fumbling around our usual “path” and checking out our surroundings, everybody yapping at the same time and pushing each other around. There were five or six of us. We had left the young ones behind to guard the “entrance” to the forest. We always did that. The forest was our land. We owned it. And the younger kids got the shit job.
All of us stopped at once. (Insert here: short film of children in a file, all bumping into each other as they stop.) There it was, in this clearing we swore we had played in dozens of times. There it was, amidst the autumn leaves on the damp ground. It seemed to have been standing there for a very long time. It almost seemed it was many hundred years old. (Again, kids: most experienced human beings at evaluating the age of a building in the middle of the dark forest.)
The house. For a long while, which was probably more like ten seconds, we stood there, in our raincoats, with our colorful little rubber boots and stared. We were positively terrified. “That house was not there last week!” shouted one of the girls. She always assumed she was right. (Or did I always assume she was wrong? Hmm.) So we argued about that. I think we crept away from the house so slowly and with such subtlety that it never noticed we had discovered it. Which is probably a good thing. Creepy house notices terrified younglings? Not good. Even the movie would be crappy. And scary. But crappy.
We never went back. Not that close, anyway. We sort of observed it from a distance, though, on two or three occasions, and decided it was probably haunted. So then, we never went back.
After I’d been living in this small village in Bas St-Laurent for two or three years, my friends and I, on a very dark, cloudy afternoon, stumbled upon quite a fascinating feature in the forest, about half a kilometer (kids – the most talented and accurate at guessing distances, true fact!) in the woods, right behind my house.
We were doing what we usually did on such afternoons: arguing about who was the leader – I would assume since I was the oldest kid on the street, I got to be the leader, you can ask my sister about that, too. We were fumbling around our usual “path” and checking out our surroundings, everybody yapping at the same time and pushing each other around. There were five or six of us. We had left the young ones behind to guard the “entrance” to the forest. We always did that. The forest was our land. We owned it. And the younger kids got the shit job.
All of us stopped at once. (Insert here: short film of children in a file, all bumping into each other as they stop.) There it was, in this clearing we swore we had played in dozens of times. There it was, amidst the autumn leaves on the damp ground. It seemed to have been standing there for a very long time. It almost seemed it was many hundred years old. (Again, kids: most experienced human beings at evaluating the age of a building in the middle of the dark forest.)
The house. For a long while, which was probably more like ten seconds, we stood there, in our raincoats, with our colorful little rubber boots and stared. We were positively terrified. “That house was not there last week!” shouted one of the girls. She always assumed she was right. (Or did I always assume she was wrong? Hmm.) So we argued about that. I think we crept away from the house so slowly and with such subtlety that it never noticed we had discovered it. Which is probably a good thing. Creepy house notices terrified younglings? Not good. Even the movie would be crappy. And scary. But crappy.
We never went back. Not that close, anyway. We sort of observed it from a distance, though, on two or three occasions, and decided it was probably haunted. So then, we never went back.
This is not a picture of the actual house, but it sure looks like it. I got it at: http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Europe/Norway/photo120524.htm
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Me.
Cute, no? I admit I wear less makeup, depending on the occasion. Also, the little bag is an accessory I do not actually own. But I'd like to. But I don't.
Other differences: my eyes are not that big proportionately to my head. I very rarely wear tops that show off my midriff and...Boo is not all brown with a little white bib. He's a little tiger.
Resemblences with the real me: the hair (sort of) and the black clothing.
In fact, this looks nothing like me.
Have a great Sunday, everyone.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Isabelle – The End.
Isabelle could hear them arguing about her failure, though she could not make out the words. She lit another cigarette and threw her small metal case beside her. The match hit the chair and curled up among the charred remains of hundreds of others littered on the chamber floor. She walked up to the door and screamed at it.
“Tunisia!”
The exasperated look on Esmé’s face worstened with the commotion. All twelve of the operators had taken a step back hurriedly at the sound of Isabelle’s shout and fallen to the floor. Isabelle emerged running from the room and attempted the seventeenth escape in less than a week.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Isabelle – Part IV.
Humphrey lowered his defiant stare and studied his feet. He reached for one of the clipboards hanging from pegs on the door frame and looked up. When will that wretched woman understand things should not be rushed?, he thought. He slammed one fist on the table now deserted by the twelve others. They were now standing in a single file right before Isabelle’s door. The woman at the head of the lineup extended one hand towards the doorknob. Humphrey hissed at the woman and paused before looking at Esmé again.
“In the beginning, there was light. And He said that was good. And He drank from the Chalice and obscured our sight. Mark my words: we must locate it, Esmé. We must. We have no other choice. Time is running out.”
“And what,” she spat, “are your puny neurons transmitting right now, you extraordinary moron? We have been waiting for this revelation of yours patiently, we have tried to be our most understanding but this charade has to stop, Humphrey! We have been very supportive. And so far, all our efforts have been in vain.”
“I haven’t –“ Humphrey slithered away from Esmé.
“No! You haven’t! You seem not to have the capability of channeling her. How many times, Humphrey, how many times will I have to explain this?”
“In the beginning, there was light. And He said that was good. And He drank from the Chalice and obscured our sight. Mark my words: we must locate it, Esmé. We must. We have no other choice. Time is running out.”
“And what,” she spat, “are your puny neurons transmitting right now, you extraordinary moron? We have been waiting for this revelation of yours patiently, we have tried to be our most understanding but this charade has to stop, Humphrey! We have been very supportive. And so far, all our efforts have been in vain.”
“I haven’t –“ Humphrey slithered away from Esmé.
“No! You haven’t! You seem not to have the capability of channeling her. How many times, Humphrey, how many times will I have to explain this?”
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Isabelle - Part III.
“You fools! How long have we waited for this? How calm does she have to be? Why can’t we use stronger doses of the elixir to speed this up? I did not spend years planning this to see it fail. There has to be…” she waved her hand impatiently above her shoulder. A metallic voice cut her off.
“…something we can do. I’ve been saying so all week, Madam. These…fools, your highness, have not a single shred of evidence our young friend has the ability to locate the item. We have collected enough data, however, to return to the previous location, and perhaps we should start from there!”
The wispy voice had emerged from the speaker on the wall. Esmé shrugged cynically and turned her gaze back to the window, her fists clenched.
“Your highness, if I may, what are we to do, then?”
A short man emerged from the antechamber and made his way towards the table, fingering his leather pouch. His voice sounded oddly the same through the speaker and in person.
“What? Humphrey, you dimwit! You are the cause of this! You are the one we should be looking to for a plan right now! There is a reason I had this facility built, and you certainly proved you couldn’t handle it properly! And that is precisely the reason you are now navigating this wreck! You can’t handle things!”
“…something we can do. I’ve been saying so all week, Madam. These…fools, your highness, have not a single shred of evidence our young friend has the ability to locate the item. We have collected enough data, however, to return to the previous location, and perhaps we should start from there!”
The wispy voice had emerged from the speaker on the wall. Esmé shrugged cynically and turned her gaze back to the window, her fists clenched.
“Your highness, if I may, what are we to do, then?”
A short man emerged from the antechamber and made his way towards the table, fingering his leather pouch. His voice sounded oddly the same through the speaker and in person.
“What? Humphrey, you dimwit! You are the cause of this! You are the one we should be looking to for a plan right now! There is a reason I had this facility built, and you certainly proved you couldn’t handle it properly! And that is precisely the reason you are now navigating this wreck! You can’t handle things!”
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Isabelle - Part II
Everything swung into focus. A chair in the corner. The cedar wood shelving. The portrait of her father. Her small feet covered by the blanket. She sighed. The light seeping from under the door was soft and yellow, and she knew at once they were all there, waiting anxiously for her to emerge from the room.
“Adjust the intake levels, this is mad!” one man said, pointing angrily at the door. “There is no way she could have located this fast. There has to be something we can do.”
Another man hissed curses under his breath, clutching the leather pouch hanging from his belt. The tiny lights illuminating the floorboards hesitated. Someone flicked a switch twice and they steadied, resuming their cold lighting along the edges of the oval room they were in. Isabelle unwound the threads around her fingers, straightened her back and lit a cigarette.
“I’ve located!” she screamed breathlessly. She exhaled. The scanner on her left had gone off the charts once again and she knew her captors would not be pleased. She allowed herself a half-grin, satisfied she had frustrated them. Another drag. A pause. Exhale.
“In light of the current progress, madam, we cannot take her there. She has exceeded our expectations and we simply cannot keep up with her. We have to postpone the location.”
The tall, slender, satin-clad figure standing at the window turned and faced them.
“Adjust the intake levels, this is mad!” one man said, pointing angrily at the door. “There is no way she could have located this fast. There has to be something we can do.”
Another man hissed curses under his breath, clutching the leather pouch hanging from his belt. The tiny lights illuminating the floorboards hesitated. Someone flicked a switch twice and they steadied, resuming their cold lighting along the edges of the oval room they were in. Isabelle unwound the threads around her fingers, straightened her back and lit a cigarette.
“I’ve located!” she screamed breathlessly. She exhaled. The scanner on her left had gone off the charts once again and she knew her captors would not be pleased. She allowed herself a half-grin, satisfied she had frustrated them. Another drag. A pause. Exhale.
“In light of the current progress, madam, we cannot take her there. She has exceeded our expectations and we simply cannot keep up with her. We have to postpone the location.”
The tall, slender, satin-clad figure standing at the window turned and faced them.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Isabelle - Part I
There was no room on the table. There was scarcely any room to breathe. It was ten past five in the morning and they had been working for what felt like eternity. In the silent, opaque night, the buzzing and whirling noises had stopped and she was wide awake, moved by the sudden stillness of her surroundings. She gathered her thoughts and took a deep breath.
Cool air drifted in through the opening in the tent. The signal. Isabelle rose to her feet, picked up her knapsack and went outside in the fresh breeze of the desert night. She walked for a while before letting herself fall to her knees in the rusty orange sand. It was close to sunrise – but the stillness of her surroundings, however immense and exotic they were, made her uneasy and a chill ran up her spine, making the short brown hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. She had no idea what to look for in the Sahara desert and tried hard to figure it out. The camels were all perched on their folded legs and were moaning in their sleep. The sand seemed to swirl and dance around her, even though the wind had died down, and called her to her knees once again. Her hands ran on either side of her legs, fingers digging in the sand and raking it ever so gently. Breathe. Her face was now very close to her knees, she had folded onto her own lap and was studying little craters in the sand. Little footsteps, it seemed, left by critters in the night. She followed one path, until it intersected with another. She followed that one. Soon, she found herself staring at the traces left by hundreds of insects, short and long, sinuous and of military precision – a whole other world had left its mark and was now hiding from the rising sun.
“Tunisia,” she mouthed, smiling.
Cool air drifted in through the opening in the tent. The signal. Isabelle rose to her feet, picked up her knapsack and went outside in the fresh breeze of the desert night. She walked for a while before letting herself fall to her knees in the rusty orange sand. It was close to sunrise – but the stillness of her surroundings, however immense and exotic they were, made her uneasy and a chill ran up her spine, making the short brown hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. She had no idea what to look for in the Sahara desert and tried hard to figure it out. The camels were all perched on their folded legs and were moaning in their sleep. The sand seemed to swirl and dance around her, even though the wind had died down, and called her to her knees once again. Her hands ran on either side of her legs, fingers digging in the sand and raking it ever so gently. Breathe. Her face was now very close to her knees, she had folded onto her own lap and was studying little craters in the sand. Little footsteps, it seemed, left by critters in the night. She followed one path, until it intersected with another. She followed that one. Soon, she found herself staring at the traces left by hundreds of insects, short and long, sinuous and of military precision – a whole other world had left its mark and was now hiding from the rising sun.
“Tunisia,” she mouthed, smiling.
Clearly.
That's it! That's enough! No more procrastinating!
I must now present you, Horde of Readers, with.....
Drum roll, please, Sergio! (Sergio is my imaginary drummer. He lives with Little Person Living Inside My Head. His uncle is Sergio Mendes, Brazilian musician extraordinaire.)
I must now present you, Horde of Readers, with.....
Drum roll, please, Sergio! (Sergio is my imaginary drummer. He lives with Little Person Living Inside My Head. His uncle is Sergio Mendes, Brazilian musician extraordinaire.)
...True Fact About Me Number Two:
I Am In Denial.
True fact - surprising, I know, but true.
Monday, May 07, 2007
On Obliques and Squares of Light.
So I stuck with the gym thing. Which is good.
It makes me feel good. I even feel a little...firmer.
Mmmm, fiiirm. Oh - sorry.
I actually found my triceps last week. I didn't even know I had them. They were there, but in a lame, outta-the-way fashion. So there they are. I'm beginning to see the shadows of side-abs. They're technically called obliques, but I call them side abs because they are the abs on the side. So. That's why. Enough about the gym. All you need to know is I love it and plan to continue going. I still don't understand how I've developed this urge, suddenly, to hop on the machines and sweat, but I get that urge now.
It's Monday morning and I am at home because I worked almost all of Saturday to have peace and quiet. I wondered why I didn't get much done at work - I still do - so I am currently trying to find ways to improve my concentration. I think I have a very short attention span. If I'm in the middle of doing something and someones walks over to my desk, I'm fucked.
These days, I am puzzled because I sometimes find myself wishing I was mean. I sometimes wish I could say "shut up and let me work" to people but I can't. Probably because it isn't a very civilized or nice way to deal with other people and my nice personality is stronger than my bitch personality.
I know you're in there, bitch personality! Come on! Come out - it's spring! Come give the finger to annoying assholes! Come invade my brain just long enough for me to walk up to someone and say: "Please keep your stupid, incomprehensible mumbling and off-key, crappy singing to yourself or leave this room." Okay, okay, that's the polite version. I think I am probably already dealing with this the right way and I'm being polite all the time, or so my colleagues tell me. I confuse the little voice in my head and what really happens, sometimes. Maybe I have a split personality problem! Oh, no!
...that would explain the blood on my shirtsleeve, Friday night...just kidding. Haha.
On the Boo front, this little naughty monkey is driving me nuts. I took him outside on Sunday, harness and leash and all, as per the rules. He was completely freaked in the beginning. He would not even stand, he was lying on his side looking at me like I had slapped him. So I checked that I had not done up the straps too tight, scooped him up in my arms and took him outside to the balcony. After two minutes of no movement, I scooped him up again and put him in the stairs leading to the yard. Nothing. Then picked him up and gently lowered him into the grass. Click! Some sort of primal instinct kicked in and he started roaming around, me in tow, nose to the ground, into the bushes and under the stairs. He was pretty scared by the neighbors' kids with their whirring, spinning toys and their screams. So I took him inside and since then, he won't stop meowing in from of the patio door. He is practically pointing at it, going (in his James Mason voice) : "Open this door now, I say! Can't you see I'm supposed to be outside? What are you doing, staring at the square of light? Open it!" And so on, with various levels of insults and debilitating meowing. I swear, the meowing sounds like someone is ripping at his insides.
Enough. I gotta go outside with the cat.
It makes me feel good. I even feel a little...firmer.
Mmmm, fiiirm. Oh - sorry.
I actually found my triceps last week. I didn't even know I had them. They were there, but in a lame, outta-the-way fashion. So there they are. I'm beginning to see the shadows of side-abs. They're technically called obliques, but I call them side abs because they are the abs on the side. So. That's why. Enough about the gym. All you need to know is I love it and plan to continue going. I still don't understand how I've developed this urge, suddenly, to hop on the machines and sweat, but I get that urge now.
It's Monday morning and I am at home because I worked almost all of Saturday to have peace and quiet. I wondered why I didn't get much done at work - I still do - so I am currently trying to find ways to improve my concentration. I think I have a very short attention span. If I'm in the middle of doing something and someones walks over to my desk, I'm fucked.
These days, I am puzzled because I sometimes find myself wishing I was mean. I sometimes wish I could say "shut up and let me work" to people but I can't. Probably because it isn't a very civilized or nice way to deal with other people and my nice personality is stronger than my bitch personality.
I know you're in there, bitch personality! Come on! Come out - it's spring! Come give the finger to annoying assholes! Come invade my brain just long enough for me to walk up to someone and say: "Please keep your stupid, incomprehensible mumbling and off-key, crappy singing to yourself or leave this room." Okay, okay, that's the polite version. I think I am probably already dealing with this the right way and I'm being polite all the time, or so my colleagues tell me. I confuse the little voice in my head and what really happens, sometimes. Maybe I have a split personality problem! Oh, no!
...that would explain the blood on my shirtsleeve, Friday night...just kidding. Haha.
On the Boo front, this little naughty monkey is driving me nuts. I took him outside on Sunday, harness and leash and all, as per the rules. He was completely freaked in the beginning. He would not even stand, he was lying on his side looking at me like I had slapped him. So I checked that I had not done up the straps too tight, scooped him up in my arms and took him outside to the balcony. After two minutes of no movement, I scooped him up again and put him in the stairs leading to the yard. Nothing. Then picked him up and gently lowered him into the grass. Click! Some sort of primal instinct kicked in and he started roaming around, me in tow, nose to the ground, into the bushes and under the stairs. He was pretty scared by the neighbors' kids with their whirring, spinning toys and their screams. So I took him inside and since then, he won't stop meowing in from of the patio door. He is practically pointing at it, going (in his James Mason voice) : "Open this door now, I say! Can't you see I'm supposed to be outside? What are you doing, staring at the square of light? Open it!" And so on, with various levels of insults and debilitating meowing. I swear, the meowing sounds like someone is ripping at his insides.
Enough. I gotta go outside with the cat.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Work It, Baby.
Today, I am going to do something I have been wanting to do for a while, but have always put off for stupid/financial/lazy reasons.
I'm going to the gym this afternoon. Yes, Beloved Readers. I kid you not.
I signed up last week, dished out waaaay more money than it should cost to work out in a high-tech facility, and voilà.
I understand it's a service and one should pay for it, but here's what bugs me. The guy who signed me up was definitely a salesman. I mean, I got the tour and the demos before we talked money. He was giving me a tour in English, because my anglo friend signed up with me. This is what he sounded like - it was great. Just a preview for you, my lovelies:
"Dis? De 'Ammer Streng? It's de bess in de Wess. Diss it's de bess matchine you can get, because it's de eye tech stuff, you know? Me, I work 'ere, I never seen people hurt their self, break something, or stretch a muscle. Because dis, it's all how do I say, it's all..you can see you 'ave de security belt, like in a car. Nice, hein?"
Yes. De bess in de Wess indeed. I provided him with that expression, because he was hesitating at each new section of the gym, looking for a way to say it was the best equipment on the market. So I said: "The best in the West" while doing the little shooting motion with my hands. And that was it. He loved it. So it became:
"Dis? Bess machine in the Wess in Qwebec. It's de bess." (doing the hands-palms-down sweeping motion indicating finality.)
When he told me the price I would have to pay, I was knocked right off my chair. I think he saw the disbelief in my face - granted, my jaw was unhinged, mouth open, vacant expression in the eyes - I must have looked quite dumb. I mentally picked myself up from the floor, laughed and asked him why it was so expensive. He looked at me, fake confidence oozing from every pore, and tried to do the cute eye thing at me (which pissed me off) and said - I'm sparing you the québécois accent this time : "You're right, ok? Money should not be an obstacle on your way to feeling better in your body. You want to lose weight? Here's what I can do for you." And he proceeded to give me a shit deal. "Okay. Our advert says it costs this much a month? That's not good. It's false representation, sort of. You know? Because actually, that price? It's the price for ONE service (i.e. just cardio, just free weights), no trainer to get you started. You are not allowed to use all the other services." His attitude changed, he became pissed off, because I did not fall for his routine and I asked questions. He would have liked me to sign right away. I'm guessing he makes commission.
Then we found common ground (sort of). I never thought I'd have to ask so many questions not to get handed a crappy deal. I am mad that it should cost me so much to feel better. All that being said, I am spending the money knowing full well that I am paying for the latest high-tech equipment (de bess in the Wess, sigh) and location. I'll have to pay extra to get someone to help be build my programme, which pisses me off too. I can't afford to pay for that today. So I'll be with a friend who has worked out in a gym before, and she'll help me. And I'll be really careful and not overdo it. And I'll stretch before and after. Ahhh. Jesus. Here we go.
At least I got a really sweet deal on gym shoes yesterday. *high five*
I'm going to the gym this afternoon. Yes, Beloved Readers. I kid you not.
I signed up last week, dished out waaaay more money than it should cost to work out in a high-tech facility, and voilà.
I understand it's a service and one should pay for it, but here's what bugs me. The guy who signed me up was definitely a salesman. I mean, I got the tour and the demos before we talked money. He was giving me a tour in English, because my anglo friend signed up with me. This is what he sounded like - it was great. Just a preview for you, my lovelies:
"Dis? De 'Ammer Streng? It's de bess in de Wess. Diss it's de bess matchine you can get, because it's de eye tech stuff, you know? Me, I work 'ere, I never seen people hurt their self, break something, or stretch a muscle. Because dis, it's all how do I say, it's all..you can see you 'ave de security belt, like in a car. Nice, hein?"
Yes. De bess in de Wess indeed. I provided him with that expression, because he was hesitating at each new section of the gym, looking for a way to say it was the best equipment on the market. So I said: "The best in the West" while doing the little shooting motion with my hands. And that was it. He loved it. So it became:
"Dis? Bess machine in the Wess in Qwebec. It's de bess." (doing the hands-palms-down sweeping motion indicating finality.)
When he told me the price I would have to pay, I was knocked right off my chair. I think he saw the disbelief in my face - granted, my jaw was unhinged, mouth open, vacant expression in the eyes - I must have looked quite dumb. I mentally picked myself up from the floor, laughed and asked him why it was so expensive. He looked at me, fake confidence oozing from every pore, and tried to do the cute eye thing at me (which pissed me off) and said - I'm sparing you the québécois accent this time : "You're right, ok? Money should not be an obstacle on your way to feeling better in your body. You want to lose weight? Here's what I can do for you." And he proceeded to give me a shit deal. "Okay. Our advert says it costs this much a month? That's not good. It's false representation, sort of. You know? Because actually, that price? It's the price for ONE service (i.e. just cardio, just free weights), no trainer to get you started. You are not allowed to use all the other services." His attitude changed, he became pissed off, because I did not fall for his routine and I asked questions. He would have liked me to sign right away. I'm guessing he makes commission.
Then we found common ground (sort of). I never thought I'd have to ask so many questions not to get handed a crappy deal. I am mad that it should cost me so much to feel better. All that being said, I am spending the money knowing full well that I am paying for the latest high-tech equipment (de bess in the Wess, sigh) and location. I'll have to pay extra to get someone to help be build my programme, which pisses me off too. I can't afford to pay for that today. So I'll be with a friend who has worked out in a gym before, and she'll help me. And I'll be really careful and not overdo it. And I'll stretch before and after. Ahhh. Jesus. Here we go.
At least I got a really sweet deal on gym shoes yesterday. *high five*
Friday, April 06, 2007
Planned Chocolate Consumption.
Easter. Bleh.
I'll eat all of my two chocolates. One bunny, one baby chicken.
Then I'll feel queazy.
Then I'll promise myself, for the umpteenth year in a row, that I will never eat all of my chocolate in one sitting ever again because I'll feel like crap and my heartbeat will be racing and I'll generally feel like my eyes are about to pop out of my head. Not a pretty picture.
Okay, I won't do that. Thank you, Conscience (Little Person Living Inside My Head - is that you?), for making me realize I could voluntarily avoid feeling sick sometime this weekend. I'll eat the bunny only. Then the next day, I'll eat the baby chicken.
No, no, wait, I won't do that either. I'll be reasonable. I'll have only the bunny's ears.
He's only got an ear and a third, really, because he's sitting sideways. It's a profile of a bunny.
So I'll eat that, then I'll put the earless bunny away. Then I'll eat the baby chicken's head. And I'll put the rest away too. It's actually a 2-D baby chicken, so it's not too bad if I eat its head, then the rest some other time. I mean, it's not a full 3-D chicken. No harm done.
Ah. I feel much better now, knowing how I'll eat my chocolate this year. When I was a kid, thank the authorities my mom kept me in line, because I think I would have eaten the whole collection of chocolates we got in one day. It seems like our whole family thought it was a good plan to buy us chocolate, and in my memories there was chocolate everywhere. Had I eaten all of it, I probably would have run a freaking trench into the hardwood floor, pacing and pulling out my hair (and my sister's, heehee), rolling my eyes and screaming insanities.
But no. My mom rationed the chocolate. I am thankful now, but as a child I felt it was the most cruel thing a mother could do to her children, especially at Easter, what with all the fuzzy bunnies and little yellow baby chickens and pastel colors all around. Oh! And the woven baskets we made in school and filled with the plastic hair/fake hay stuff.
The adults actually made us work for that shit too, we had to go on an Easter-egg hunt all around the house. And the adults were all standing there, in a line, with a glass of wine in one hand, patting each other on the back, thinking they were smart. They were thinking: "Oohhh, they'll never find it this year. We'll have to give them hints. We've found way better hiding spots than last year's. Haha. We adults are so smart. We find the best hiding places for chocolate. Look at them, poor little helpless creatures, lifting the sofa cushions. Pffft! Shyeah right!" and then after thinking all that, they would stand there, astonished and positively flabbergasted, as we proudly displayed the whole lot, just like that, found in ten minutes. Oh - maybe even five minutes. Ha! In your face, adults! Good times. I loved the Easter-egg hunt. Especially when I found the mother lode, the king/queen/royalty of all Eastereggs, the Laura Secord creme-filled egg. Oh man.
I actually bought one a few years ago, after holding it in my hands for a couple of seconds in the store thinking back to its awesome taste and creaminess. I took it home, sat in the kitchen, tore the box open and, just like my mom used to do, pulled out a serrated knife and cut a slice of it, width-wise. I looked at it a little more, and ate the slice.
Then I felt queazy.
Then I promised myself that I would never buy that ever again because I felt like crap and my heartbeat was racing and I generally felt like my eyes were about to pop out of my head. It's amazing what you can sustain when you're a kid.
When I was a kid, to me, Easter was for overindulging, eating craploads of chocolate at all times of day, and eating the ham. I'll be eating the ham this year. I'll be cooking the ham myself, for crying out loud. So I'll definitely be eating the ham, and also the bunny and the baby chicken. But not all at once.
Because I'm smart. That's right.
I'll eat all of my two chocolates. One bunny, one baby chicken.
Then I'll feel queazy.
Then I'll promise myself, for the umpteenth year in a row, that I will never eat all of my chocolate in one sitting ever again because I'll feel like crap and my heartbeat will be racing and I'll generally feel like my eyes are about to pop out of my head. Not a pretty picture.
Okay, I won't do that. Thank you, Conscience (Little Person Living Inside My Head - is that you?), for making me realize I could voluntarily avoid feeling sick sometime this weekend. I'll eat the bunny only. Then the next day, I'll eat the baby chicken.
No, no, wait, I won't do that either. I'll be reasonable. I'll have only the bunny's ears.
He's only got an ear and a third, really, because he's sitting sideways. It's a profile of a bunny.
So I'll eat that, then I'll put the earless bunny away. Then I'll eat the baby chicken's head. And I'll put the rest away too. It's actually a 2-D baby chicken, so it's not too bad if I eat its head, then the rest some other time. I mean, it's not a full 3-D chicken. No harm done.
Ah. I feel much better now, knowing how I'll eat my chocolate this year. When I was a kid, thank the authorities my mom kept me in line, because I think I would have eaten the whole collection of chocolates we got in one day. It seems like our whole family thought it was a good plan to buy us chocolate, and in my memories there was chocolate everywhere. Had I eaten all of it, I probably would have run a freaking trench into the hardwood floor, pacing and pulling out my hair (and my sister's, heehee), rolling my eyes and screaming insanities.
But no. My mom rationed the chocolate. I am thankful now, but as a child I felt it was the most cruel thing a mother could do to her children, especially at Easter, what with all the fuzzy bunnies and little yellow baby chickens and pastel colors all around. Oh! And the woven baskets we made in school and filled with the plastic hair/fake hay stuff.
The adults actually made us work for that shit too, we had to go on an Easter-egg hunt all around the house. And the adults were all standing there, in a line, with a glass of wine in one hand, patting each other on the back, thinking they were smart. They were thinking: "Oohhh, they'll never find it this year. We'll have to give them hints. We've found way better hiding spots than last year's. Haha. We adults are so smart. We find the best hiding places for chocolate. Look at them, poor little helpless creatures, lifting the sofa cushions. Pffft! Shyeah right!" and then after thinking all that, they would stand there, astonished and positively flabbergasted, as we proudly displayed the whole lot, just like that, found in ten minutes. Oh - maybe even five minutes. Ha! In your face, adults! Good times. I loved the Easter-egg hunt. Especially when I found the mother lode, the king/queen/royalty of all Eastereggs, the Laura Secord creme-filled egg. Oh man.
I actually bought one a few years ago, after holding it in my hands for a couple of seconds in the store thinking back to its awesome taste and creaminess. I took it home, sat in the kitchen, tore the box open and, just like my mom used to do, pulled out a serrated knife and cut a slice of it, width-wise. I looked at it a little more, and ate the slice.
Then I felt queazy.
Then I promised myself that I would never buy that ever again because I felt like crap and my heartbeat was racing and I generally felt like my eyes were about to pop out of my head. It's amazing what you can sustain when you're a kid.
When I was a kid, to me, Easter was for overindulging, eating craploads of chocolate at all times of day, and eating the ham. I'll be eating the ham this year. I'll be cooking the ham myself, for crying out loud. So I'll definitely be eating the ham, and also the bunny and the baby chicken. But not all at once.
Because I'm smart. That's right.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Competition.
I'm sitting here, Saturday morning, 8:25 a.m., having my awesome italian percolator coffee. The sun is out. Very nice. Birds are chirping and all. Spring? Yesss...
I was awake at 7:00 this morning. I went to bed really early last night and now I'm waiting for a decent time to start making noise in the kitchen. Don't want to wake the gamer up. He went to bed at 2 in the morning... I need to get cracking, though, because I am having three friends over for dinner tonight. Did I tell you I'm part of a cooking competition? Heehee. The whole thing is very informal, of course, it's just us five competing. Well, two of the group don't cook. So it's three of us, really.
We've got themes, criteria, and friendly pressure from the other two cooks. When the night of the dinner arrives, it's all business. The cook/host gets grades on the 10 criteria evaluated. My eggheadedness has made me lose the evaluation sheet, unfortunately, but I do remember some of the criteria by heart. There are, for example, points attributed for Aroma. That's when you walk in the house when you get there and it smells good. Your mouth waters (or not). Then there is Costume. Aprons do fine. They've been a trend in the last two dinners.
Other criteria include Produits du terroir, Accord des vins, Présentation, Thème....can't remember the others. Oh! There's also Utilisation de termes culinaires. So you have to say, with a knowing look on your face, like it's part of your everyday vocabulary, things like: "Alors pendant que je déglaçais (*ching!*) avec le vin, j'ai blanchi (*ching!*) les poireaux et les ai réservés (*ching!*) avant de verser la crème et de la porter à ébullition (*ching!*). J'ai ensuite baissé le feu et fait réduire de moitié (*ching ching ching!*) avant de disposer (*ching!*) les suprêmes (*ching!*) dans les assiettes préalablement réchauffées, de napper (*ching!*) de sauce et de servir." You get the point. The chings are my points going up. I am through the roof, I kid you not. The "réduire de moitié" part is very popular. We use it every dinner.
Before I reveal what I will be serving tonight, I have to give many thanks to my two angels who helped me with recipes and ideas. Moua moua moua to you both. So tonight, provided I find the ingredients I could not find last night, my guests will be enjoying, as an entrée, little phyllo dough barquettes filled with fine slices of tomato and fresh basil, cooked au gratin *ching!* with Brie. As a main course, veau gorgonzola with pepe e cacio pasta (pepper and cheese) and grilled asparagus, zucchini and red pepper. And as a dessert, two cheesecake medallions with raspberry coulis and fresh mint leaves. You've guessed it, my theme is cheese.
How many plates do I add to the table?
I was awake at 7:00 this morning. I went to bed really early last night and now I'm waiting for a decent time to start making noise in the kitchen. Don't want to wake the gamer up. He went to bed at 2 in the morning... I need to get cracking, though, because I am having three friends over for dinner tonight. Did I tell you I'm part of a cooking competition? Heehee. The whole thing is very informal, of course, it's just us five competing. Well, two of the group don't cook. So it's three of us, really.
We've got themes, criteria, and friendly pressure from the other two cooks. When the night of the dinner arrives, it's all business. The cook/host gets grades on the 10 criteria evaluated. My eggheadedness has made me lose the evaluation sheet, unfortunately, but I do remember some of the criteria by heart. There are, for example, points attributed for Aroma. That's when you walk in the house when you get there and it smells good. Your mouth waters (or not). Then there is Costume. Aprons do fine. They've been a trend in the last two dinners.
Other criteria include Produits du terroir, Accord des vins, Présentation, Thème....can't remember the others. Oh! There's also Utilisation de termes culinaires. So you have to say, with a knowing look on your face, like it's part of your everyday vocabulary, things like: "Alors pendant que je déglaçais (*ching!*) avec le vin, j'ai blanchi (*ching!*) les poireaux et les ai réservés (*ching!*) avant de verser la crème et de la porter à ébullition (*ching!*). J'ai ensuite baissé le feu et fait réduire de moitié (*ching ching ching!*) avant de disposer (*ching!*) les suprêmes (*ching!*) dans les assiettes préalablement réchauffées, de napper (*ching!*) de sauce et de servir." You get the point. The chings are my points going up. I am through the roof, I kid you not. The "réduire de moitié" part is very popular. We use it every dinner.
Before I reveal what I will be serving tonight, I have to give many thanks to my two angels who helped me with recipes and ideas. Moua moua moua to you both. So tonight, provided I find the ingredients I could not find last night, my guests will be enjoying, as an entrée, little phyllo dough barquettes filled with fine slices of tomato and fresh basil, cooked au gratin *ching!* with Brie. As a main course, veau gorgonzola with pepe e cacio pasta (pepper and cheese) and grilled asparagus, zucchini and red pepper. And as a dessert, two cheesecake medallions with raspberry coulis and fresh mint leaves. You've guessed it, my theme is cheese.
How many plates do I add to the table?
Friday, March 16, 2007
On What it Means to be Alive.
Dear Friends and Throng of Readers, bear with me.
I am writing to you today in my capacity as a live person.
I have recently discovered I am fully committed to being alive. It somehow feels like a complete breakthrough, although I am not really aware of the reasons why. Yet. It'll come, I am sure. I'm just a little slow.
Four beings have died in the past six months. Four beings of light, four persons who were loved by many people. The first person passed away in September and it was a shock, but not unexpected. He left children, grand children, and great-grandchildren. The second person was not born in October. She left a huge gap and is still loved and thought of daily. She never got to smile or feel a kiss on her cheek. The third person took her life at the end of February and filled a church with people wanting to flap their arms like birds and thank her for the images she has left us of liberty. The fourth person went to join the first person on March 1st, wearing her skirt with birds on it and a rose on her lapel.
I now think back on each of these people and what they have given me and feel grateful for a lot of things I did not feel grateful for a couple of years ago. Someone recently told me the events we witness (somehow that does not feel like a strong enough term) before our forties shape us and make us the people we are for the rest of our lives.
So (and I fully endorse the cheesiness this entails) thank you to all the people in my life who are there. Friends who are near, friends who are too far, family who means the world to me, colleagues who have become friends, and people I've never seen who send me little angel medals in the mail. And also thank you to the people who are not there. I am going to thank you in person when the time is just right, because it is important. When you need me, I'm right here. And I've got a huge smile on my face and arms wide open.
Okay, I'm done now. I'll be back before the month is over this time, I promise.
I am writing to you today in my capacity as a live person.
I have recently discovered I am fully committed to being alive. It somehow feels like a complete breakthrough, although I am not really aware of the reasons why. Yet. It'll come, I am sure. I'm just a little slow.
Four beings have died in the past six months. Four beings of light, four persons who were loved by many people. The first person passed away in September and it was a shock, but not unexpected. He left children, grand children, and great-grandchildren. The second person was not born in October. She left a huge gap and is still loved and thought of daily. She never got to smile or feel a kiss on her cheek. The third person took her life at the end of February and filled a church with people wanting to flap their arms like birds and thank her for the images she has left us of liberty. The fourth person went to join the first person on March 1st, wearing her skirt with birds on it and a rose on her lapel.
I now think back on each of these people and what they have given me and feel grateful for a lot of things I did not feel grateful for a couple of years ago. Someone recently told me the events we witness (somehow that does not feel like a strong enough term) before our forties shape us and make us the people we are for the rest of our lives.
So (and I fully endorse the cheesiness this entails) thank you to all the people in my life who are there. Friends who are near, friends who are too far, family who means the world to me, colleagues who have become friends, and people I've never seen who send me little angel medals in the mail. And also thank you to the people who are not there. I am going to thank you in person when the time is just right, because it is important. When you need me, I'm right here. And I've got a huge smile on my face and arms wide open.
Okay, I'm done now. I'll be back before the month is over this time, I promise.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Oscar and the Meteorological Apparatus
Me? I'll be watching the Oscars tonight wondering why I don't know 90% of these actors.
Then I'll remember it's because I just don't remember them, and I'll keep watching.
Then I'll eat more apple pie and have another beer, and maybe recognize Tom Hanks or - who knows - Macaulay Culkin in the front rows and go: 'Ohhhhh! Heeeey! I know them!'
And then we'll drive back home and I'll go to bed and I'll dream of people shaking barometers again.
Then I'll remember it's because I just don't remember them, and I'll keep watching.
Then I'll eat more apple pie and have another beer, and maybe recognize Tom Hanks or - who knows - Macaulay Culkin in the front rows and go: 'Ohhhhh! Heeeey! I know them!'
And then we'll drive back home and I'll go to bed and I'll dream of people shaking barometers again.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
State of the Mindset Address.
I subscribed to this years ago, just for the heck of it. And now, it is spewing things at me. This was my horoscope for today:
Now, let me make things clear.
a) I now understand the meaning of constraints. Work is more than I bargained for.
b) My physical appearance. Yeah. See the post dated January 19th. I am not questioning my attractiveness. At all. I am simply uncomfortable in my current physical state. And I am taking steps to alleviate this uneasiness. My fucking clothes don’t fit, for crying out loud. I’ve got that muffin-top look. But I also realize that seven months of pregnancy don’t go away instantly. I need a hug. I need someone to tell me it’s okay to be insecure. The only problem is (and I do not know why I did this), I’ve been bragging that I don’t care what I look like.
c) I used bad judgment several times since my return to work. No one's complained about this, but it’s my job to fix it. Now. And a week ago. I hope no one hates me for it. Then again, I’m not there to please anyone, I’m there to do my job.
d) A decision at the end of the day? Uh-huh. A martini.
"For a few weeks now you have understood that each day brings its share of constraints. For example, today you may feel doubts about your physical appearance. Are you questioning your attractiveness, or your ability to make an impression on someone special? Did you use bad judgment at some point, and are now afraid that you've hurt your reputation? A decision you make at the end of the day will relieve all these anxieties."
Now, let me make things clear.
a) I now understand the meaning of constraints. Work is more than I bargained for.
b) My physical appearance. Yeah. See the post dated January 19th. I am not questioning my attractiveness. At all. I am simply uncomfortable in my current physical state. And I am taking steps to alleviate this uneasiness. My fucking clothes don’t fit, for crying out loud. I’ve got that muffin-top look. But I also realize that seven months of pregnancy don’t go away instantly. I need a hug. I need someone to tell me it’s okay to be insecure. The only problem is (and I do not know why I did this), I’ve been bragging that I don’t care what I look like.
c) I used bad judgment several times since my return to work. No one's complained about this, but it’s my job to fix it. Now. And a week ago. I hope no one hates me for it. Then again, I’m not there to please anyone, I’m there to do my job.
d) A decision at the end of the day? Uh-huh. A martini.
Monday, February 05, 2007
"Balade à Toronto"
« Le temps passe
Et un jour
On est vieux et puis seul
Et rien ne reste plus
Que la fierté d’avoir aimé correctement
Ou la honte et les tourments
De ne pas avoir compris
Attends
Attends
J’ai quelque chose à te dire »
- Jean Leloup
Et un jour
On est vieux et puis seul
Et rien ne reste plus
Que la fierté d’avoir aimé correctement
Ou la honte et les tourments
De ne pas avoir compris
Attends
Attends
J’ai quelque chose à te dire »
- Jean Leloup
Friday, February 02, 2007
Out of the Frying Pan.
Whew! I am surfacing now. Ahhhh.
I am surfacing because it is Friday Night. I am allowing myself to stop thinking about work, having a few beers, and taking it easy. I have been back at work for the past two weeks, and I’ve achieved more in this short time span than I had for the past three months. Granted, the past three months’ progress was mainly measured in knitting. This is significant progress I am feeling when I get home, now that I am actually contributing something to others. This progress is the kind that makes you satisfied at the end of the day.
Unfortunately, this is also the progress that has been keeping me up in the middle of the night. It is not my job I am thinking about: it is merely the stimulation of the day’s work that is keeping my mind creating and thinking too much. I did not anticipate this reaction.
I have tried counting to two hundred. I have tried counting backwards from two hundred. I did it five times the other night. Not helpful. I got to the point where I thought if I made it as slow as possible, I would fall asleep. I’d count every time I breathed in and out. Breathe in slowly, one. Breathe out slowly, one and a half. Breathe in, two. Breathe out, two and a half.
I also tried remembering the lyrics to a song I heard in a movie, but this just got me all revved up and making up lyrics of my own. I got way too creative, and before I knew it, what started out as an actual lullaby in a movie had turned out to be a techno hit in my mind, complete with synth beats and progressions. This made my sleeplessness even more upsetting and, in the end, a stressful and awakening experience. The weird thing is, I think I actually composed a potential hit. It was freaking good! My toes were wiggling, my heart was racing, it was almost like I was on some dance floor in a smoky, crowded club. Not a very calming method. I should have just gotten dressed and headed out the closest club to dance it off.
After speaking to a friend about my trouble sleeping, I resorted, the next night, to her method of imagining a calming setting. I ended up, after much trouble visualizing my quiet space, in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, right by a lake. I was sitting in a huge, plushy cushioned, comfortable chair, looking at the small, slow waves licking my own private beach. The air was filled with the smell of grass and earth and the distant buzzing of crickets. I think I had a martini right on the armrest of this Adirondack-like chair. I could feel the sun on my legs. It was wonderful, and not unlike something I have actually experienced. I looked right, and there was a thick forest of pine trees and ferns. I turned my head slowly, breathing a long breath of contentment, and looked left.
The alarm clock read 3:30 a.m.
I am surfacing because it is Friday Night. I am allowing myself to stop thinking about work, having a few beers, and taking it easy. I have been back at work for the past two weeks, and I’ve achieved more in this short time span than I had for the past three months. Granted, the past three months’ progress was mainly measured in knitting. This is significant progress I am feeling when I get home, now that I am actually contributing something to others. This progress is the kind that makes you satisfied at the end of the day.
Unfortunately, this is also the progress that has been keeping me up in the middle of the night. It is not my job I am thinking about: it is merely the stimulation of the day’s work that is keeping my mind creating and thinking too much. I did not anticipate this reaction.
I have tried counting to two hundred. I have tried counting backwards from two hundred. I did it five times the other night. Not helpful. I got to the point where I thought if I made it as slow as possible, I would fall asleep. I’d count every time I breathed in and out. Breathe in slowly, one. Breathe out slowly, one and a half. Breathe in, two. Breathe out, two and a half.
I also tried remembering the lyrics to a song I heard in a movie, but this just got me all revved up and making up lyrics of my own. I got way too creative, and before I knew it, what started out as an actual lullaby in a movie had turned out to be a techno hit in my mind, complete with synth beats and progressions. This made my sleeplessness even more upsetting and, in the end, a stressful and awakening experience. The weird thing is, I think I actually composed a potential hit. It was freaking good! My toes were wiggling, my heart was racing, it was almost like I was on some dance floor in a smoky, crowded club. Not a very calming method. I should have just gotten dressed and headed out the closest club to dance it off.
After speaking to a friend about my trouble sleeping, I resorted, the next night, to her method of imagining a calming setting. I ended up, after much trouble visualizing my quiet space, in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, right by a lake. I was sitting in a huge, plushy cushioned, comfortable chair, looking at the small, slow waves licking my own private beach. The air was filled with the smell of grass and earth and the distant buzzing of crickets. I think I had a martini right on the armrest of this Adirondack-like chair. I could feel the sun on my legs. It was wonderful, and not unlike something I have actually experienced. I looked right, and there was a thick forest of pine trees and ferns. I turned my head slowly, breathing a long breath of contentment, and looked left.
The alarm clock read 3:30 a.m.
Friday, January 19, 2007
All Over the Place.
I’ve seen this thing on blogs I read called a meme. (apparently pronounced meem). From what I’ve gathered, they’re little quizzes, questions to blog about. Some of the memes are cool. Some are truly worthy of their name, because they are completely about the person writing them. Others are fun, like the one I did a couple months ago where you had to open a book at page 123. Today I am going to reveal a fact about me. You know, in the true spirit of memes. Ready?
True Fact About Me Number One:
I love grilled cheese sandwiches. They are yummy.
Stunned? Perplexed? Hungry? Good. I am glad this truly revealing fact about me got a rise out of you. I endeavour to keep you on your toes with equally poposterous (may I, Bridge?) statements. I am giving you...me. And now for something completely different: another revelation.
I am returning to work on Monday! Yes. It is true. Initially slated for a return to active society in March, I started feeling restlessness and the need for a new challenge in December. Honestly, making soup, cleaning up the house and watching Battlestar Galactica/Lost/Penn and Teller: Bullshit/The X-Files while knitting has its perks, but - well…you get the picture. I think this means I can go back. Why wait? My body is fine (and by fine I do not mean “hot” or “rockin’”, see post later today for explanation), my mind is….well I do have my good days and bad days, but who doesn’t, right? Thus am I preparing to re-enter the reality of the workplace. It will be a different job, with the same fun/smart/entertaining people. I am truly looking forward to it. Most of all, I am looking forward to hearing hits of the 80’s and 90’s sung with emotion by one of my coworkers in particular. It has always felt weird to sing them alone to myself. They needed that special delivery and gusto. Here I come, man. Prepare for special requests.
True Fact About Me Number One:
I love grilled cheese sandwiches. They are yummy.
Stunned? Perplexed? Hungry? Good. I am glad this truly revealing fact about me got a rise out of you. I endeavour to keep you on your toes with equally poposterous (may I, Bridge?) statements. I am giving you...me. And now for something completely different: another revelation.
I am returning to work on Monday! Yes. It is true. Initially slated for a return to active society in March, I started feeling restlessness and the need for a new challenge in December. Honestly, making soup, cleaning up the house and watching Battlestar Galactica/Lost/Penn and Teller: Bullshit/The X-Files while knitting has its perks, but - well…you get the picture. I think this means I can go back. Why wait? My body is fine (and by fine I do not mean “hot” or “rockin’”, see post later today for explanation), my mind is….well I do have my good days and bad days, but who doesn’t, right? Thus am I preparing to re-enter the reality of the workplace. It will be a different job, with the same fun/smart/entertaining people. I am truly looking forward to it. Most of all, I am looking forward to hearing hits of the 80’s and 90’s sung with emotion by one of my coworkers in particular. It has always felt weird to sing them alone to myself. They needed that special delivery and gusto. Here I come, man. Prepare for special requests.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Home.
Dear monkey-monkeys,
I got back from Montreal on Sunday. I had a blast with my sister for a whole week. And the whole thing started with…I’ll let you read what I was supposed to post Saturday morning, January 6th.
PG-13. January 6, 2007.
Yesterday, among numerous other things, I baked a cake. Not just any kind of cake. A carrot cake. But not any carrot cake. No siree. Children, avert your eyes. Go play with the boxes your Christmas presents came in. Shoo.
Are there only adults, here? Great.
I made a cake in the shape of a penis. That’s right. As I write this, there is a foot and a half long schlong in my fridge. Carrot with cream cheese icing. And I’m about to put it in the car, along with two boxes of food and my suitcase, and get my chauffeur to drive me to Montreal. Sweet. I can’t wait to see my brother in law’s face! He asked for it, and doesn’t even suspect he’s gettin’ it. That’s right. Nor does he suspect he’s getting a surprise party with all of his friends!!! Happy 30th, indeed!
Oh – the suitcase is because I’ll be in Montreal for the next week. Double sweet. See you in a week!
I got back from Montreal on Sunday. I had a blast with my sister for a whole week. And the whole thing started with…I’ll let you read what I was supposed to post Saturday morning, January 6th.
PG-13. January 6, 2007.
Yesterday, among numerous other things, I baked a cake. Not just any kind of cake. A carrot cake. But not any carrot cake. No siree. Children, avert your eyes. Go play with the boxes your Christmas presents came in. Shoo.
Are there only adults, here? Great.
I made a cake in the shape of a penis. That’s right. As I write this, there is a foot and a half long schlong in my fridge. Carrot with cream cheese icing. And I’m about to put it in the car, along with two boxes of food and my suitcase, and get my chauffeur to drive me to Montreal. Sweet. I can’t wait to see my brother in law’s face! He asked for it, and doesn’t even suspect he’s gettin’ it. That’s right. Nor does he suspect he’s getting a surprise party with all of his friends!!! Happy 30th, indeed!
Oh – the suitcase is because I’ll be in Montreal for the next week. Double sweet. See you in a week!
Thursday, January 04, 2007
No Sleep, No Good.
First off, how do you like my new style? I figured a little change would be a fresh start to a new year. I made a resolution about the blog for this year, too, but I’m keeping it a secret for now, just in case my lazy ass nature takes over and I don’t keep said resolution.
Two nights in a row of sleeping in waves of half an hour. Not good.
The first night, it was Boo’s fault. He misses our Rent-a-Cat Saku. At least that’s my theory. We kittysat Saku, a charming cuteness of a Siamese, for two weeks, and he bullied her the whole time, cornering her, ripping out her soft velvety fur and generally being an ass. And now he seeks her throughout the house, meowing and running and, well, being a cat. He is such a spoiled, king-of-the-castle cat. Hence the crown medal with his name on it.
Last night, I think it was a combination of having a cup of tea an hour before bed (also not good) and my brain not being able to shut out my mind’s wild ramblings. Thinking about the Gabrielle. Thinking about how I was supposed to give birth to her yesterday. Reminding myself that next time will be the right one. Moving on to things I want to do before returning to work. Thinking of returning to work.
Needless to say, I am tired. But it’s okay, I’m in a really good mood today, so I’ll go put five movies in the DVD player, turn the TV on and knit two pairs of bootees. There are two new babies who need their little footsies to be kept warm. Welcome to the world, Adèle and Paul!
Needless to say, being a little tired makes me lazy. Laziness is already one of my character traits (albeit a minor one, I should add), but I just couldn’t bring myself to do anything after I woke up, had a cup of coffee, jumped in the shower and got dressed. So I got caught up on the blogs I read. Whew!
I’m going to go make a ham and cheese croissant now.
Two nights in a row of sleeping in waves of half an hour. Not good.
The first night, it was Boo’s fault. He misses our Rent-a-Cat Saku. At least that’s my theory. We kittysat Saku, a charming cuteness of a Siamese, for two weeks, and he bullied her the whole time, cornering her, ripping out her soft velvety fur and generally being an ass. And now he seeks her throughout the house, meowing and running and, well, being a cat. He is such a spoiled, king-of-the-castle cat. Hence the crown medal with his name on it.
Last night, I think it was a combination of having a cup of tea an hour before bed (also not good) and my brain not being able to shut out my mind’s wild ramblings. Thinking about the Gabrielle. Thinking about how I was supposed to give birth to her yesterday. Reminding myself that next time will be the right one. Moving on to things I want to do before returning to work. Thinking of returning to work.
Needless to say, I am tired. But it’s okay, I’m in a really good mood today, so I’ll go put five movies in the DVD player, turn the TV on and knit two pairs of bootees. There are two new babies who need their little footsies to be kept warm. Welcome to the world, Adèle and Paul!
Needless to say, being a little tired makes me lazy. Laziness is already one of my character traits (albeit a minor one, I should add), but I just couldn’t bring myself to do anything after I woke up, had a cup of coffee, jumped in the shower and got dressed. So I got caught up on the blogs I read. Whew!
I’m going to go make a ham and cheese croissant now.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Starting.
We are now seven years into what, as a child, I used to call The Future. To me, anything beyond the year 2000 meant flying cars and metal wands to heal wounds and food in the form of colored pellets. Seven years into the future. Sounds pretty cool, doesn’t it? Or maybe I’m just too much of a sci-fi fan. Imagine how much I loved Back to the Future. Man, was that a cool movie or what.
Seven years into the future, then, and I have many things to show for it. And the past year has now gone up in smoke. It went by so fast, obviously. I have been dreading writing this post as I was telling K the other day, because I don’t feel I had a particularly great year. I can sum it up in a few sentences, as I have discovered, but I feel it would rob all the significant things that happened, good or bad, of their significance. I need to rest on 2006 for a little while longer and mull it over. So rather than do a retrospective of 2006, I’ll follow K’s suggestion and make my list of resolutions for 2007. Sure, it’s already 3 days in, but it’s never too late to make resolutions you know you won’t keep anyway. Hmmm. In your face, Little Person In My Head. (Little Person has been bitching the last couple of days, because nothing was done around the house. I had decided to take a holiday. She’s now very upset because she is dousing me with lingering doubt and remorse over not having kept my resolutions and I keep telling her she can go to hell and suck my big fat….popsicle.) Okay, we need a title, here. Something not too pompous. Ah!
The 2007 List of Resolutions That Will Not Be Kept by Me (and probably a bunch of other people):
1. Take good care of myself. That means eating well (which I already do), getting some exercise (which…I totally already do…ahem.) and generally not being a couch potato. (Note to self: develop method for knitting in sleep or while running. Consider cost of hiring little monkey to do knitting.)
2. Do the dishes every evening (wait – when we bought this house, wasn’t there talk of a dishwasher?)
3. Read good books. (Brigitte, ball’s in your court. Hit me.)
4. Count fingers every day to make sure they’re all there. Wait – that doesn’t sound right. Ah! I meant count my blessings every day to make sure they’re all accounted for.
That’s it! Eureka moment. That’s what I want to do this year, is count my blessings. So little people do it. Well, I shouldn’t put it that way – I should specify that lately, I have been attracting people who like to complain about everything. Even good things. Good things are never quite perfect enough. There’s always that tiny something that takes the shine off anything. You wanted a red car? You saved up for years and bought the red car? You’re happy parading around in the shiny red car? Good. Focus on that. Not on the disappointment you are feeling because you could not get the $1500 mags to go with it, you know what I mean?
Throng of Readers, prepare for my onslaught of shameless, wide-slashing generalizations of what human beings are like. Okay, maybe not. I’ll upset people. So Throng of Readers, look around you. I’ll wait.
Where are you? In your home, in the ‘office’? At work? Internet café? Some coffee place with your laptop? What do you see? You see things that are on some shelf, on a table, in a bag. Clothes, cars, phones. Things that are material. You also see people’s faces, maybe. Some are happy, some aren’t. Some look miserable, but it’s just to attract attention. Others look happy, but their faces hide repressed sadness. Some just look blank.
Now look a little deeper, scratch right past the first couple of levels your eyes can adjust to, you may see decisions you’ve made, friends you have, smiles you’ve given and have received, things that were said in confidence, foreheads you’ve kissed, surprises that were planned, laughs shared, hands you’ve held, and promises you have kept. It’s that deeper look I want to be able to take as often as possible, just to remind myself that no, not everything is beautiful and pink and fuzzy. But things certainly are better when you look at them from a certain angle.
I wish all of you a happy, healthy, insightful and creative New Year, from the bottom of my heart.
Seven years into the future, then, and I have many things to show for it. And the past year has now gone up in smoke. It went by so fast, obviously. I have been dreading writing this post as I was telling K the other day, because I don’t feel I had a particularly great year. I can sum it up in a few sentences, as I have discovered, but I feel it would rob all the significant things that happened, good or bad, of their significance. I need to rest on 2006 for a little while longer and mull it over. So rather than do a retrospective of 2006, I’ll follow K’s suggestion and make my list of resolutions for 2007. Sure, it’s already 3 days in, but it’s never too late to make resolutions you know you won’t keep anyway. Hmmm. In your face, Little Person In My Head. (Little Person has been bitching the last couple of days, because nothing was done around the house. I had decided to take a holiday. She’s now very upset because she is dousing me with lingering doubt and remorse over not having kept my resolutions and I keep telling her she can go to hell and suck my big fat….popsicle.) Okay, we need a title, here. Something not too pompous. Ah!
The 2007 List of Resolutions That Will Not Be Kept by Me (and probably a bunch of other people):
1. Take good care of myself. That means eating well (which I already do), getting some exercise (which…I totally already do…ahem.) and generally not being a couch potato. (Note to self: develop method for knitting in sleep or while running. Consider cost of hiring little monkey to do knitting.)
2. Do the dishes every evening (wait – when we bought this house, wasn’t there talk of a dishwasher?)
3. Read good books. (Brigitte, ball’s in your court. Hit me.)
4. Count fingers every day to make sure they’re all there. Wait – that doesn’t sound right. Ah! I meant count my blessings every day to make sure they’re all accounted for.
That’s it! Eureka moment. That’s what I want to do this year, is count my blessings. So little people do it. Well, I shouldn’t put it that way – I should specify that lately, I have been attracting people who like to complain about everything. Even good things. Good things are never quite perfect enough. There’s always that tiny something that takes the shine off anything. You wanted a red car? You saved up for years and bought the red car? You’re happy parading around in the shiny red car? Good. Focus on that. Not on the disappointment you are feeling because you could not get the $1500 mags to go with it, you know what I mean?
Throng of Readers, prepare for my onslaught of shameless, wide-slashing generalizations of what human beings are like. Okay, maybe not. I’ll upset people. So Throng of Readers, look around you. I’ll wait.
Where are you? In your home, in the ‘office’? At work? Internet café? Some coffee place with your laptop? What do you see? You see things that are on some shelf, on a table, in a bag. Clothes, cars, phones. Things that are material. You also see people’s faces, maybe. Some are happy, some aren’t. Some look miserable, but it’s just to attract attention. Others look happy, but their faces hide repressed sadness. Some just look blank.
Now look a little deeper, scratch right past the first couple of levels your eyes can adjust to, you may see decisions you’ve made, friends you have, smiles you’ve given and have received, things that were said in confidence, foreheads you’ve kissed, surprises that were planned, laughs shared, hands you’ve held, and promises you have kept. It’s that deeper look I want to be able to take as often as possible, just to remind myself that no, not everything is beautiful and pink and fuzzy. But things certainly are better when you look at them from a certain angle.
I wish all of you a happy, healthy, insightful and creative New Year, from the bottom of my heart.
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